The blogosphere, especially, is saturated with images and ideas of common sistas being inept, overly domineering, inconsiderate, and basically a bunch of onry bishes when it comes to relationships. Bullshit.

“Not so!” , we say, here at The Ninja Parade. All these females can’t be clueless and only #winning if they’re ridiculously gorgeous, with nice firm asses and breasts like casaba melons (or, more popularly…white).

Some of these chicks have to be doing well. Real well. We know the statistics, 50% of marriages end in divorce…that means 50% of them shyts last F-O-R-E-V-E-R. And ya know what? That’s alright with us, because the aforementioned “forever” is predicated on two looming premises that we like to conveniently ignore: 1- ninjas need love too…and it’s not just women wanting to be in long-term joints. 2- the women who want it…get it, sans the ridiculously fat asses and casaba melon-esque breasts.

You see, Ol El Jugo was educated at one of the finest Universities around and the majority of our student population was comprised of African American women. It was there that I noticed something peculiar about a certain group of women that ignited an informal case study that I’ve been conducting ever since with a working hypothesis that: sistas who could enjoy themselves in the presence of beer seemed to be cut from a different cloth then those who didn’t.

They just are.

Blame it on the fact that they probably had a father, or father figure, who drank beer and loved they mama…blame it on the “Homegirl Syndrome” that connects beer with sports (which is most men’s first love)…hell, blame it on the rain, but a sista and a nice frosty mug, into perpetuity, are as sexy (if not more so) as stelletos/boy-shorts/wifebeater combination that we’ve grown to love.

Soooooo…

Instead of clowning heaux, which we have become quite infamous for, today we shall uplift, rejoice over, and dare I say…champion the marginally attractive-to-fine black woman with beer. Today we’ll get our Special Agent Dr. George Huang from Law & Order: SVU on…and create a profile of these beautiful beer-clad nubian princesses.

Scenario One: She’s Married, buying Beer at the Grocery Store. This bish IS. IN. LUH. Not just in luh, but a champion. No seriously. She’s the epitome of winning. Not simply because she’s married, but because she sees the value of beer’s synergistic magic in the peace and sactity of her household. She gives good (not great) dome, washes clothes in Gain, and makes a mean ass homemade taco. Not only that, she gives her husband the obligatory 45 minutes of complete silence that he needs upon entry of the home. She secretly runs the show, while making him feel like a Kang. *salutes* [Editor’s Note: the beer doesn’t actually have to be for him, if lil mama needs to throw back a cold one to shut the fcuk up...May God & Klkeninja keep her.]

Scenario Two: She’s Married, buying Beer at the Liquor Store. Location, location, location. Ok, she’s got the right idea…just hasn’t been married as long and jawn in Scenario One, but was surely mentored by her. She get’s the big picture, however, the fact that she’s at the liquor store…when she was undoubtedly at the grocery store, or at least rode past it, earlier suggests her priorities are a bit out of whack. It’s all good boo…we see you though. Maybe daddy wasn’t there growing up, but your dedication to the cause of not coming home without a cold and refreshing Heineken, suggests she makes the best grape Kool-Aid in the contiguous United States AND definitely has hood tendencies and is probably a hood chick. (not to be confused with a Hood Rat. See also: Hood Chicks vs. Hood Rats) She keeps dish soap in the bathroom (why? we have NO CLUE, maybe it loosens the glue in her tracks better, or her nigga is just as hood and likes his boo to smell like Lemon Joy fresh out the tub…who knows?), but she’s winning. Times get tough, but she knows where to go for comfort. *kee-chee* <—that’s the sound of a cold one being cracked open, and of winning.

Scenario Three: She’s Single, buying Beer at the Grocery Store. Legendary football coach Vince Lombardi is quoted as saying…”success comes from knowing that you did your best to become the best that you are capable of being”. The single woman in the grocery store choosing between Yuengling Amber Bock and Newcastle Brown Ale is a champion in the making. When you see her grab that 12-pack, take note of that moment in history. It is a young Michael Jordan raising up over two Georgetown Hoyas defenders in ’82. It’s magical. And any woman who has ever bought beer in a grocery store and been approached by SEVERAL men can attest to the starry gaze they/we have in their/our eyes. She may not cook or clean that well, but you’ll never hear her complaining about *Allen Iverson voice* practice? Why? Because that’s where champions are made and she knows it. And if you think niggas aren’t slick judging you when you host cookouts, Super Bowl parties, baby showers where men are invited, and any other shyt that would allow any man to glance into your fridge and see a beer that *looks* like its been there for a while…you crazy as hell. We see that shyt and we’re either gonna shoot our shot right then, or toss an assist to one of our single homeboys and let him know just how special you are. Real talk.

Scenario Four: She’s Single, buying Beer at the Liquor Store. This bish just like drinking beer…and I ain’t even mad at her. There’s a certain sexiness to women who independently purchase and consume beer. I’ll bet two paychecks that ol girl has a great sense of humor and nice rack, and even if she’s not into sports (which she probably is)…she’s smart enough to enjoy a good game and *wait on it* …shut the fcuk up from tip-off and last shot. Unlike the other three scenarios, where the purchaser could easily be buying for another person (presumably male), nah…jawn likes beer and drinks beer. She’s the independent woman that pop culture song writers write about without all the pomp and circumstance. She is in complete ownership of her social life, whether romance works out for her or not she can rest on her blessed assurance that when that nigga don’t call back she can paint her toenails, throw back a cold one, and bump that new Jill Scott until she goes to sleep and tomorrow will be a new day. God is able…ahhhhhshaddabowshay!

“I don’t always drink beer, but when I do…” – The Most Interesting Man In The World.

[Editor’s Note: Oh, Hello. As a brief aside from the rather crass lambasting that the creative forces behind The Ninja Parade serve up on a regular, we would like to offer you today a more polished and refined piece. Consider this a sprig of fresh cilantro on the side of your normally ignant Flamin’ Hot Cheetos. Don’t get it twisted though, despite the rather high brow approach, we are actually SONNING THE SHYT out of famo. Now, I’ll turn the blog over to our Sr. Geo-Political Correspondent, KatcherNTheRye]

‘Cause a ninja wear a kufi, it don’t mean that he bright

America is a more perfect union in part because its citizens have the right to free speech as provided by the 1st Amendment to the U.S. Constitution. America has become a less intelligent society in part because too many of its citizens exercise that right despite not knowing what they’re talking about.

Hello, Lupe Fiasco, nee’ Wasalu Muhammad Jaco.

During a recent CBS interview, Fiasco, a critically acclaimed rapper and Chicago native, had this to say:

“For me, the biggest terrorist is Obama in the United States of America. I’m trying to fight the terrorism that’s causing the other forms of terrorism. You know the root cause of terrorists is the stuff the U.S. government allows to happen. The foreign policies that we have in place in different countries that inspire people to become terrorists.”

I don’t know about you but I feel absolutely fucking terrified.

All that stands between us and the biggest terrorist, President Obama, is Lupe Fiasco, who is trying to fight the terrorism that’s causing other forms of terrorism. Except, well, what other forms of terrorism are being caused by the terrorism he’s fighting? And by what means is Fiasco fighting this terrorism? By his own admission he doesn’t vote.

My brain atrophies each time I try to pick through Fiasco’s word salad, which is neither cogent nor salient. It’s the hubris that’s to be expected when someone who’s content to regurgitate the scattershot rhetoric of anti-establishment blowhards is given the opportunity to speak his mind publicly. Serious, thoughtful political discourse suffers another casualty each time someone such as Fiasco weighs in.
That’s intellectual terrorism and Fiasco needs to be called out, not celebrated.

In particular, his statement that,

“The foreign policies that [the U.S. has] in place in different countries that inspire people to become terrorists,”

…barely constitutes the shell of an argument. It’s much closer to being an accusation, one that is lacking wholly in substance. What foreign policies, specifically? How are people inspired to become terrorists? What people?

To those who pride themselves on feeling (as opposed to actually being) “conscious,” Fiasco is killin’ it! [These same niggas typically have Ph.d’s in the most popular conspiracy theories and cut hair on the side, See Also 4 Great Myths & Conspiracies] It doesn’t really matter than he didn’t get around to saying what makes President Obama not just a terrorist, but the biggest terrorist. And I guess it doesn’t matter, either, that Fiasco didn’t cite an example of America’s foreign policy toward even one nation.

But words have meaning, so, yes, it does matter. Lots.

In the micro, the reality is that President Obama is not a terrorist. The far-left fringe is upset because America is prosecuting three wars that it can’t afford to fight and, unfortunately, have resulted in the deaths of innocent civilians.

In the macro, the reality is that no one who is elected president of the United States begins his term with a clean foreign policy slate. The policies he adopts and pursues are necessarily influenced by the policies his predecessor adopted and pursued. Then there’s the matter of the countries these policies affect.

Are the Chinese, for example, going to wake up one day and decide it’s just fine that America sells tens of billions of dollars of arms to Taiwan? Are Americans going to be energy independent anytime soon, thereby freeing the government to stop supporting the oppressive House of Saud?

People are entitled to their opinions but not their own facts. If people want to be taken seriously even after they’ve offered their opinion –often unsolicited– it must be informed by understanding and an appreciation for context. Fiasco’s opinions are informed by abysmal ignorance and a pitifully myopic world view.

That’s enough to get Facebook to get “Likes,” Retweets and blog co-signs, but among people who have a real interest in geopolitics, Fiasco can kick … and push … and coast his ass the fcuk outta here.

It’s the second quarter of 2011, and if you haven’t noticed, MVP Kim Kardashian is wearing a Sierra-Leonian knee cap on her left ring finger. Leading the league in assists is Evelyn Lozada. [Formerly noted for running behind cars in heels, Lozada, has moved on from the Rookie of The Year victories of head for handbags to the All Star team of wifey/ aspiring baby mama]

And, please… Spare me the cries of hate that “That ish won’t last” and “she’s not happy” commentaries because their sponsors are black and their lambos are blue ninja! The heauxs are winning, plain and simple. Here’s why:

Heaux Skills Are Transferrable: Gone are the days when a heaux was just a heaux. Neo-heauxs are bringing back the Margie Hendricks brand of heauxing. The self-professed Mrs. Ray Charles Robinson on the road was his wife away from home, not just nookie. She was ride or die, contributed to his financial gain and, most importantly, she shut the fukc up! {see klkeninja’s “ Put a ring on It “ post.}. Heauxs are making dollars and sense as the low-key, high-return alternative to wifing loud ass, broke ass chicks who can’t cook and hate their jobs.

Keeping His Name Hot in These Streets: That’s right, while you were at the bar screaming “ninjas ain’t sh!t”, heauxs were having the BEST YEAR EVER. Heauxs are becoming better at talking to the right people. Talking to your girlfriends about him gets him nowhere… talking to the press keeps him relevant. Heauxs are the best PR for ninjas in NFL-lockouts, bad seasons, jail stints and whatever fukcup your man has gotten himself into. Ladies, trust me and Beyonce, be the light that keeps the streets on and upgrade his reputation whenever you get the chance. If you don’t, the heauxs will (and heauxs will light it up on twitter, faceook, vimeo, foursquare and via press release while yo’ ass sits up somewhere hating)

Heauxs Have Money: Get your weight up BISH!! Heauxs are bringing their own money to the table. Regardless of who they threw a drink on to get it, neo-heauxs have dough. So, why are they chasing money, you may ask? This isn’t about getting money for them…it’s about doubling money and stackin that shyt.. Longevity. Stability. Twenty-Four hour champagne diets! Selling Body Magic is not an entrepreneurial plan, honey! And for this reason, girls, your man is on to the next one…

Heauxs are Heauxs: I know what you’re thinking: “This chick is a heaux.” Not exactly. I just know what I want out of life (name that tune). I’m a believer in fundamental truths begetting other truths. The Secret, or positive visualization, works because it stands on the fundamentals of faith. Heaux visionaries understand that keeping him focused in the bedroom lessens idle time in the streets. I employ said fundamental tendency in my marriage. Yes, homie, marriage. Get you one!

[Disclaimer: The mayhem and foolishness spewed in the above article is indeed the shared viewpoint of a population of happily married women who ain’t mad at heauxs for being heauxs. All subsequent emails (which can be forwarded to yomommawasaheaux@yodaddyiswinning.com) will receive automated messages of the “Put a Ring on It” post strictly re-inforcing your need to STFU and listen.

“LOVE? You know, what do you know about love? What do you possibly think you know about love? You know …LOVE should have brought your ass home last night!”

[Editor’s Forward: As stated in other blogs, we at the Ninja Parade are taking great strides to diversify our content. Our ignorance can no longer be confined to the sheer mockery of society and putting a muthafuka on blast for kicks and giggles…but we desire also, to show our softer, more compassionate, ignant side. Enjoy, ~The Infamous El Jugo]

Little girl lost

I’m a virgin to the ninja parade [Editor’s Note: …and to the Ninja Parade only] but I’m going to rock this shyt like I’m Tyler Perry at a Women in White “Usher Board” Baptist Church convention.

So, my so called adult life started out like a story straight out of black college life weekly. Girl goes to black college, pledges sorority, meets boy, falls in love, dates all through college, gets married, and *wait for it*… Divorces boy.

I am ashamed to admit it, but I even thought of several ways in which to ruin my ex husbands career. *yeah, I was on some bitter sour apple b*tch shyt*

I even went through his emails and forwarded out all his philandering emails with other women [See Also: The Sideline Heaux Chronicles, vol 1] to his new main chick. I must say, that was some of my best work. I had to show the New b*tch, I mean new chick, nah…I mean bitch: he cheating on you and you just a couple months in, heaux [See Also: The Sideline Heaux Chronicles, vol 2]. You not special…bwhahaha…But I digress.

As more time passed, I discovered that I was in fact a little girl lost. I didn’t know what I wanted out of life anymore. I didn’t know what true love meant anymore. I questioned everything that I once knew to be fact. All I knew was that, things changed and they were not for the better.

I spent day in and day out working, hanging out occasionally, and just surviving. It’s like my life was on auto pilot and Phyllis Hyman was singing the soundtrack to my new life. *and we know how that story ended* <<cues Phyllis Hyman “Living All Alone”, takes extra long hit of that Afghan, sits down glass of Pinot…picks up bottle>>

And while the days have gotten better, it’s still an uphill battle to find myself again and I’ve currently drawn the following conclusions…

I Don’t Know Shyt About Men…I Admit it…You F*ckas Confuse the Shyt Out of Me. Some of you ninjas want a quiet submissive woman, some want you to be they momma, and others want you to be a fucking mind reader…I give up…you win…Ill just love on B.O.B till I figure out an alternative…<<insert images of Bullet named Leroy>>

I’m a Strong Punk…What I mean by this is…I cry about everything, yet I manage to pick myself up and get right back on the horse. At first I thought this showed my weakness, but I have learned it shows my never give up nature. <<cues “We Fall Down” by Donnie McClurkin with strange vibrating sound in back>>

I’ve always been told the first step to healing or solving a problem is to admit it. So here it is. I am a lost little girl who is trying to find her way in life and love with a broken compass. I think its time to ditch the compass and actually learn from my mistakes, listen to sound advice from creditable individuals, and trust that tiny voice inside that I have ignored in the past.

Phrased differently, “El Jugo, this…”, “El Jugo, that…” it’s all the same thing; I get emails all the time from baffled readers of The Ninja Parade wondering just how El Jugo can stay so brilliantly consistent?

*leans in, glances from side to side, and whispers*

I’ll let ya’ll in on a lil secret. Ol El Jugo has some help. You see, for years now, I’ve kept an inner circle of ignorance to keep me grounded. Yes, a core group of unique individuals with flagrant disregard, in their own unique way, for that which is up-right and correct but embracing sarcasm, hood sociology, and relationships.

Within this inner circle, one individual sticks out as a creative Muse for The Ninja Parade. Like the muses of Greek mythology, our muse has inspired debauchery and ratchetness of epic proportions.

Once more, you’ll even be surprised to know this person is royalty.

“But El Jugo, how can I become a muse for such a noble endeavor as the Ninja Parade?”, you ask.

Very simple my child, just follow these simple steps:

STEP 1: Declare Yo’self Kang. As Editor in Chief (dare I day Kang Ninja) of The Ninja Parade, I come to dispel the antiquated notion that all royalty is a result of carefully conjoined bloodlines and power-move pregnancies…nope. All a nigga really gotta do is call himself a kang and act accordingly. Doin’ Kang shyt starts first with the notion that one is a Kang amidst the backdrop of a traditional upbringing, a loving family, etc…or if you haven’t had that, really just some regular nigga shyt. Yes…you, HAVE TO, wake up tomorrow and say “fcuk it…imma Kang”. T.I. did it. Lebron James did it. You can do it. If you’re feeling a little uneasy, it’s cool, start of modest. Instead of being the kang of tha south, or a kang of rap. Or the kang of pro basketball…try being the kang of some shyt like, I dunno…t-shirts.

STEP 2: Don’t Knock. Unlike *JayZ voice* can’t knock the hustle; by this I mean, literally, don’t knock. Sure my nigga I said you could grab a blank CD whenever you want, buuuuuut that doesn’t necessarily give you the green light to waltz into a nigga room unannounced while i’m doing the grown-folk with one of my boos, looking with a semi-approving shrug, grabbing the CDs, and bouncing. You see, part of doing Kang Shyt, and thus being a Kang…isn’t to be overly concerned with trifles like the privacy of your friends, nope; more specifically, it’s to be completely oblivious to the awardness of walking in on ya boy in the throws of passion, grabbing a nominal object, and leaving as if you didn’t JUST walk in. Kang shyt.

STEP 3: Get It…And Trick It. We all know it ain’t trickin’ if you got it, right? [Editor’s Note: The Ninja Parade is diametrically opposed to the premise of the previous question.] Well, apparently, part of being a Kang is the gleeful spread of affluence upon the opposite sex. Once one reaches Kang status, apparently, you crossed the thresh-hold of criticism for trickin. And despite any arguments that said activity thus raises the price of p*ssy for everyone else (much the way energy speculators horde fuel)…instead you feel COMPLETELY justified in this act, simply because this shyt makes you feel good. I mean, what Kang doesn’t provide for his subjects??

STEP 4: Meet The Browns. This is the final, and most difficult step in your training. Your royal persona is not that of Prince Akeem, nah son. You gotta be 1/2 Nino Brown (Fictitious 90’s New York Drug “Kangpin”) aaaaaand 1/2 Bobby Brown (ironically the “Kang of R&B”). This is a hard line to walk young Jedi, but you can do it. It’s going to take a lot of hard work, dedication and late nights gyrating to “My Perogative” and then making it rain $20’s backstage on groupies after dousing them all with Andre Spumante Champagne and blanketly threatening to “cancel” them heaux in a Crown Royal Black and champagne tyraid. Yep, it’s THAT serious ya’ll.

…may the new Kangs birthed from these words walk in truth, and the old Kangs continue to make it rain and not knock.

I mean, at my age (30) I don’t even know what the world looks like without Crack…let alone cocaine. However, as I look back on the things that are enduring from my life, I can’t help but silently weep at the amount of awesome shyt we’ve lost to cocaine.

I mean, you would think by the mid-80’s, and the whole David Ruffin fcuking up The Temptations debacle, that we would have learned our lesson. Nope. We still tooted that “girl” up our collective noses and ruined some pretty awesome shyt.

Here are 4 Truly Awesome Things that Cocaine Fcuked Up:

1.) In The Heat of The Mutha-Fcukin Night. DAMN! Not even the streets of Sparta, Mississippi are safe. Which makes sense, because they DID have several violent crime, action packed, felonious seasons with only like 5 cops. Who know small southern Mayberry-ish towns had so many social ills…or cocaine?? Dude and his flagrant prowess for power messed up one of the best low budget TV series of all times. Top-Cop Detective Virgil Tibbs, the blue-black ninja pictured, definately believed in de-segregation because he kept plenty of white in his system.

2) Jodeci. For this one alone I’m offering up a serve on site notice of K-Ci ol stupid ass. How, on God’s green earth, do you ruin arguably the best R&B Group of the last 20 years?? Cocaine, that’s HOW. Cocaine has broken up some of the greatest singing groups in all of blackness…damn shame these dudes had to be statistics. <<insert Jodeci “Feenin” and sad irony>>.

3.) Any Given Sunday. What do you get when you mix underage heaux, Dancing With The Stars, a Hall of Fame NFL Career and tons…upon tons…of blow? Lawrence “LT” Taylor. Ol LT is a testament to just how forgiving the American media is. Time after time he has been given a pass for outlandish coke-ed-ness…each time we welcomed his yellow-headlighted-eyes back into our hearts and homes. Famo went from sacking quarterbacks to buying quarter-sacks. Damn homie.

4.) DMX. *smh* This nigga just look like he one that mess. For real, did we not see this coming? I mean the barking, the pitbulls, the erratic behavior all SCREAM at least a really bad weed habit, if not full blown coke head. We know from the Bobby Brown Saga that celebs, especially of the ghetto variety, cannot handle the pressures of stardom with out the soothing anti-climatic high of cocaine and copious amounts of marijuana. So it’s acceptable that dude squandered a fortune on dope and parole violations right? Right? Dah welp. I’ll just wait for that Ruff Riderz reunion mixtape featuring X rapping about court ordered rehab and his relaitonship with his PO…oh yeah, and Jesus.

Been getting my usual fill of criticism from readers the last several days and I’ve realized that, in the effort to walk up-right in an increasingly gender equal society, that The Ninja Parade just hasn’t done enough so slick roast the fcuk out of ninjas. We want to make things right.

However, in the interest of fairness, truth, justice, and the American Way…it is times like these when we must go IN on some of the most hilarious niggas in our society…the Douchebags.

DOUCHEBAG~ 1. adj. Someone who has surpassed the levels of jerk and asshole, however not yet reached fucker or motherfucker. Not to be confuzed with douche. 2. An individual who has an over-inflated sense of self worth, compounded by a low level of intellegence, behaving ridiculously in front of colleagues with no sense of how moronic he appears. 3. A douchebag is a pretentious, sugar coated prick, but with emphasis on pretentious and sugar coated. [Source: The Urban Dictionary]

The sad irony is many of my readers are, in fact, douchebags…or at the very least display douchebag tendencies. Even Ol El Jugo gets called a douchebag once a quarter and on major national holidays.

So who are these creatures? What, if any, threat do they pose to the sanctity of negrodom across our nation?

Here are some key identifiers:

1) Any Nigga That Refers to Himself By His Own Nickname and Not His Real Name. …or really, in the 3rd person at any point. This hits close to home because I attended a university, steeped in tradition and legacy, one of which is: very few people actually go by their government first name. This creates a problem because normal, upstanding, high school students get sucked into this culture every year and unknowingly become…douchebags. How? you ask. Simple. Nothing says self-absorbed prick like a nigga presumably too cool to even utter his own damn name. Who the fcuk are you? Rumplestiltskin? Candyman? And have you ever heard one of these cats introduce himself to a female. Comedy. Pure comedy. Satcho cool ass down somewhere. {Ex: rappers, wannabe rappers, poets, and anyone who works at a job that requires a name-tag and doesn’t use his real name, niggas who wasn’t shyt before they pledged}

2.) ANY Ninja That Wears UnderArmour In Public. Although we clowned a high profile UnderArmour wearer on this very blog, it bears repeating. Because, as I mentioned before…this is a subtle violation of some major shit. Thou Shalt Not Wear UnderArmour in Public. At publication of this blog, the NFL is currently on lockout, so even practice squad ninjas have no excuse. The threat that these cats pose is two-fold: one, they invariably aren’t even anywhere near as swole as they think they are…causing an over-inflated ego that could ultimately get them knocked the fcuk out. two, have ya’ll ever noticed how strong these nigga’s cologne be? No, seriously. Does UnderArmour get shipped retail pre-soaked in a mixture of Axe body spray and knock-off Joup cologne? Again, SAT CHO ASS DOWN SOMEWHERE. Walkin around here like you got a full-body blood pressure cuff on. {Ex: pastors who think they swole, ex-high school football players who now work security at the club, and old black men who are fit for their age…but still out of shape by most tangible measures and get winded after a brisk walk from the grocery store door to their car}

3.) ANY Ninja That Unbuttons More Than TWO (2) Buttons on a Button-Up AND/OR Doesn’t Wear an Undershirt. This is prototypical douchebag behavior. Button-ups, by virtue of their name and design, are intended to be buttoned up. However, the inner-douche is a rule breaker. And can’t resist the opportunity to show off that *Frank Lucas voice* $25,000 Alpaca he has on his chest…adorned with a middle-of-the-mall-kiosk “iced” dog tag. The fact that dude is half Twilight warewolf is made worse by his refusal to wear any form of undershirt/wife-beater. Really, dude? So you just gonna front yo nappy chest hair in the club for all to see? And it seems like the dudes who take pictures for club promoters to post on FB on Mondays just gravitate to this clown. And the heaux who take pictures with dude are just as fcukin’ stupid and will ultimately be fighting fam in Family Court for child support money. Cause you know this Douchebag don’t strap-up (or have a job) right? [Note: Dudes who wear deep v-neck tees are the 2.0 version of this douchebag.] {Ex: dudes who stunt in the club with the same bottle of champagne all night, any light-skinded dude under 5’5″, any grown man who insists he has indian in his family}

*sigh…falls on sword*

4.) Bloggers. [Note: I’m not tombout cats who blog about uplifting, substantive, and inspirational stuff like fam over at SpreadLuv.com…nope] I’m tombout the rest of us. You KNOW who you are. We, who think our pseudo-intellectual methodology, ridiculous (albeit hilarious) observations, and overly niggerish rants deserve to be seen by the world, and appreciated no less. Nothing says pretentious like a nigga who thinks his sarcasm is worthy of print. Mind you, we are a legion of niggas who largely make generalizations about shyt we only have *pinches fingers together reeeeeal tight* that much experience with. That doesn’t mean we’re wrong, just off-base in our pseudo-intellectualism and generalizations. And BOY do we have generalizations for that ass! I’ve clowned whole restaurant chains, entire groups of women, cats who don’t publically eat fried chicken, and just about every single nigga with gold-teeth…without mercy. The blogger’s critical eye, hilarious as it may be, is about as quantitative as a ninja with a calculator at a dice game. Word. Sat cho smarty art ass down somewhere. {Ex: ninjas with relationship blogs who haven’t dated or smashed a chick over 7.125 on the appearance scale, cats on Twitter who “respect females” (yeah you nigga), and legit celebrities who are also relationship gurus now. }